


Choices

by DyrneKeeper



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DyrneKeeper/pseuds/DyrneKeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I Do post-ep. "Blaine had woken him up, gently, Saturday morning, tracing patterns over his fingertips until Kurt’s eyes had fluttered open, Blaine’s familiar room and Kurt’s new scarf, a Christmas gift from Isabel, still draped across the pillows where Blaine had unknotted it last night. Maybe the barriers aren’t as impermeable as he had thought, maybe the lines aren’t so sharp and cutting, maybe there is more gray than black and white to the world.</p><p>There must be, for this to be “just” anything."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choices

**Author's Note:**

> So. More episode reaction, apparently, because whenidance is an enabler and Kurt Hummel is impossibly compelling.

 

Kurt Hummel is not used to having choices.

For so long, the only way out of Ohio was _out_ – New York City. The only way not to get tossed into dumpsters was to stop wearing the things he did and saying the things he did and _being_ the person he was, so – no. Into the dumpsters he went. The only way to be heard was to shout. The only way to shout was to sing. The only way to be loved was by Blaine.

That he _has_ choices has been evident for a while now. That _Blaine_ has choices is a thought better left untouched – except that Kurt’s not sure if he would have looked at his own other choices without _that_ unfortunate one. That maybe there is something he can learn from that, hurt and betrayal, that there is something he _should_ learn from that, is something he’s trying very hard not to think about.

It’s almost impossible not to, though, when Blaine plays with his fingers, his other arm flung back over his head as they lay on the hotel bed in the wee hours of the morning and contemplate the ceiling while Kurt tells him about NYADA and Vogue.com and juggling classes and shifts, homework and sketches, what he’s always wanted to do and what he’s not so sure about, anymore.

“Do you have to choose?” Blaine rolls him over, straddling him, brushing a distracting thumb over Kurt’s temple before he leans down to kiss him.

“Are you telling me I don’t have to?” Kurt asks, when he can catch his breath, and Blaine’s eyes are wide and serious but his grin is wicked and so close.

“I mean I think you already have.”

Subtext: they’ve never been good at it. But Kurt thinks they are well on their way to being masters, because Blaine doesn’t wait for him to answer, just lowers his head and sucks a bruise under Kurt’s ear and Kurt’s going to have to wear scarves for a week but doesn’t care, can’t care about anything right now except wrapping his arms around Blaine’s shoulder and pulling him closer, holding him there.

Blaine had woken him up, gently, Saturday morning, tracing patterns over his fingertips until Kurt’s eyes had fluttered open, Blaine’s familiar room and Kurt’s new scarf, a Christmas gift from Isabel, still draped across the pillows where Blaine had unknotted it last night. Maybe the barriers aren’t as impermeable as he had thought, maybe the lines aren’t so sharp and cutting, maybe there is more gray than black and white to the world.

There must be, for this to be “just” anything, Blaine’s smile and Kurt’s body eager for him, again; eager for him always. Blaine’s hand on Kurt’s hip, warm under the covers: he doesn’t seem to mind.

His dad had dropped him off at the airport. Blaine had offered, wide-eyed and uninnocent over coffee Saturday night, but Kurt had said no; he and his dad were doing breakfast Sunday morning before Kurt had to leave, and Kurt already felt guilty enough that he’d spent so little of this trip home actually at home.

His dad doesn’t seem to mind – doesn’t act like he minds, at least, and Kurt is grateful for that but it also feels so strange, so weirdly adult, to get back to the house late Friday morning and face no more questions than a mild (and mildly amused) “So how was the wedding, Kurt?” and leave the house Friday night and never put an eye on the clock for curfew.

So: one last time Saturday night, in Blaine’s car again (the time in Kurt’s room that afternoon was supposed to be the last time; handjobs before dinner and a movie but they’d spent the movie holding hands, touching thighs, and by the time they get out to the parking lot they’re both a little crazed, stupid teenage bodies and Kurt maybe understands now, maybe has for days, how easy temptation is.) Quiet and dark in the park, they know the places they can go, they get each other’s’ belts undone, pants unfastened. Kurt still doesn’t do this much except for how much he has, this weekend, and Blaine holds his thighs while Kurt sinks down onto him, quiet slide and drag, quiet breaking down of everything he thought he’d been so sure of.

He’d seen the words on Blaine’s lips, knows how his eyes look when he’s ready to say them, and he’d pressed his fingers to Blaine’s mouth and felt his breath coming, quick and uneven.

“Please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

He still expects Blaine to look heartbroken. It’s the hardest thing that he hasn’t, and Kurt knows how cruel that makes him, and doesn’t know how to care because it doesn’t seem to matter – Blaine’s not fighting, because Blaine thinks he’s already won.

“How hard is it?” Blaine’s voice, low and familiar. Kurt doesn’t have an answer.              

Fuck everything – it’s been broken down for days, already, the choices Kurt never thought he’d have to make, the choices he never thought he’d make like _this_. Afterwards he kisses Blaine, hard and fierce, and then he lets go.

He gets back into New York Sunday at sunset, and it’s dusk by the time he’s walking up the street to his apartment. His apartment, New York air cold and gritty around him but his scarf still smells like his dad’s goodbye hug and Blaine’s bed, motor oil and summertime. The dusk is gathering around the pooled edges of the streetlamps on his quiet neighborhood in Lima, the same way it’s glowing against the push of light in the sky here, the constant glow of the sleepless city. New York no longer seems quite so far away as it had. It is still _out_ , it is still moving on, still victory and achievement, but he is _here_ , now, he can come and go and not lose himself, or his place here. Another boundary gone, another choice he doesn’t make – or is already past making. Lima/New York. Home/out. Blaine/not-Blaine.

At home in his room Kurt undresses in front of the mirror, unbuttons his shirt and watches the marks reveal themselves; the ones from _rehearsal_ almost faded, the bruises from the night of the not-wedding still red pinpricks; the dark purple mark just under his collar, from just last night.

He texts Blaine, home safe!, and sets his phone down on his folded pajamas. It buzzes while he’s washing his face, only this text isn’t from Blaine.  _Welcome back to the Big Apple! Coffee tomorrow?_

Kurt replies, _Yes please :)_  and smiles as he pulls his pajama shirt over his head.

Kurt has choices.

Kurt is not good at _making_ choices.


End file.
